Mary Hannay Foott

In Time of Drought

The rushes are black by the river bed,And the sheep and the cattle standWistful-eyed, where the waters were,In a waste of gravel and sand;Or pass o'er their dying and dead to slakeTheir thirst at the slimy pool.Shall they pine and perish in pangs of droughtWhile Thy river, O God, is full.

The fields are furrowed, the seed is sown,But no dews from the heavens are shed;And where shall the grain for the harvest be?And how shall the poor be fed?In waterless gullies they winnow the earth,New-turned by the miner's tool;And the way-farer faints 'neath his lightened load,1Yet the river of God is full.

For us, O Father, from tropic seas,Let the clouds be filled that shedRough rains upon Andes' eastward slope,Soft snows on Himàleh's head.Freight for us as for others thy dark-winged fleet,That soon by the waters cool,We may say with gladness, “Our need was great,But the river of God was full!”